


wildness is answering

by peachyteabuck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Kidnap Play, Overstimulation, Power Play, Spanking, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 18:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: you wake up in a cold van, bound and gagged. in some way you feel you should be scared, but in truth the rush down your spine as you hear your lover’s sinister laugh floods your panties and heats your skin.or: you knew this was a bad idea when natasha’s grin became wide, so sinister you’d think she’d been practicing this for years. “you’d do anything for my birthday?”





	wildness is answering

Everything hurts.

Every fiber of every muscle, every blood cell, every electrical pulse your heart stubbornly sparks. It _hurts._

It’s dark where you are, wherever you are. Or maybe you’ve just gone temporarily blind. No matter how hard you try to open your eyes they’re forced closed, head fruitless in its moving side to side in some sad attempt to search for changes in light or warmth or _something_ that would clue you to into where you are, what you’re there for, why you’re stuck in darkness.

Then you can feel something move across skin that you don’t think is yours. As several slender something’s graze across what you assume is (your?) leg, you realize it’s someone’s hand. And as it trails up to your abdomen you do all you can do, which is whimper something that sort of sounds like a choked _“please.”_

A voice you immediately recognize lets out a little laugh, one that sends a tide’s worth of heat crashing inside of you. “Please what, pretty girl?”

You gasp when you realize its _her_. _Natasha._ You subsequently groan when your ribs hiss in pain at the sudden expansion of your lungs.  “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

Natasha purrs as your senses are overwhelmed due to the assault of low light. When your eyes stop watering, you realize in her hand is a thick, wool blindfold. As you blink and your pupils strain to adjust, you feel the entire back side of you pressing against a cold floor. For some reason, that makes it worse. “Ya know, I went through a _lot_ of trouble getting you, so it’s going to be extra nice once I get my hands on you,” you gulp again as she laughs deep in her thoracic cavity. “I’m going to have so much fun with my new little toy.”

She’s looming over you, dressed in big, bulky boots and a tight stealth suit you’ve never seen before. The unfamiliarity of it all, the frigid and dry and dark environment and your sore body clothed in an outfit you don’t recognize and Natasha’s sadistic smirk a special kind of sick, they all come together to turn your heart into a mouse’s in both size and speed of each beat. Though, maybe a rat king is a more appropriate metaphor as she presses one of her harsh boots into the soft flesh of your stomach – skin not totally exposed but covered by a thin t-shirt - a tangle of uncovered wires all vibrating and feeding off the others’ energy. You can’t stay still, but you can’t move, so you’re stuck simply whimpering and pushing on the thick ropes that keep your legs bent with your heels pressing into your inner thighs, with your arms folded and tied across your back.  

Natasha moves her foot to _just_ push the toes of her boot under your back to push you on your side, your face away from her. As you realize all you could see now was some vast, vacant nothingness, you whine and try to push yourself back to where you could see her. Worse to know what’s coming than stare into an abyss, with the corners of your eyes _just_ registering the small light hanging from the ceiling.

Immediately, Natasha _tsks_ and holds you still with a foot on the half of your ribcage _not_ pressed into the floor. “Stay still, pathetic _slut_ ,” she hisses, and replaces your limited view with darkness as she places another thick – but less itchy – cloth over your eyes and tying it around your head.

A small, high-pitched noise escapes from behind the cloth in your mouth as you once again lose the privilege of sight, but you remain inert, desperate to please your captor in any way.

Behind you, you hear her working on something – pulling at rolls of duct tape and opening heavy plastic containers and unbuckling metal entrapments. At one point she moves you so that you’re sitting up against a wall, leaning on your side. Once again, you’re crying out in surprise and pain as the freezing metal bites into the bottom flesh of the butterfly position she’s got your legs in, that section of skin not used to the cold. She coos a little and pets down the side of your tear-stained face; Each second she touches you feels like you’re being blessed by God. Her touch now feels…you gulp. Each touch feels comforting against your freezing skin. Somewhere deep in you you’re silently begging for her to touch you again. The revelation makes you try and press your thighs together, like some repressed Catholic turned on by another nun from her convent.

It feels like hours when you feel her move closer to you once again, move closer to your face. Natasha removes the blindfold and your pupils are suddenly assaulted once again, this time with a brighter light. She graces you with a few moments to allow your eyes react, but the second your pupils have shrunk she’s pushing you to the cold ground with the back of a knife to your throat and a switch blade, sheathed but ready to be exposed, to your clothed cunt.

You do not remember taking off the pants you put on that morning. In that moment, you do not care.

“You ready to play, little girl?” She asks, lips pulled into a snarl and eyes nearly on fire. “You ready for me to play with your pussy?”

All you can do is whimper. But still, you don’t shake your head in disagreement.

“You don’t wanna talk, that’s fine,” Natasha pulls some sort of black cloth from her back pocket before wrapping it into a bunched length. “But either way I’m gonna make sure I don’t have to hear any pretty cries for help. Don’t need the neighbors callin’ the cops, or nothin’ like that. You understand?”

She bends down to wrap it between your upper and lower jaw, corners of your eyes are wet and red and your upper lip stained with snot from crying. It not like Natasha minds, though. In fact, your girlfriend seems to revel in it. Like a reptile on a hot stone, her deep breaths and hooded eyes make her seem almost lost to the pleasure.  She dips down, shortening the distance between your eyes. For a moment you just stare at her, pleading for her to do _something_.

The black bandana wrapped between your upper and lower jaw keeps your mouth from completely closing, and as she gazes at you with this almost indescribable look on her face. You know you’ve seen this before, seen the wide eyes and small smile and fire behind each individual breath.

As you gulp, and more drool trails down your chin and onto the floor below you, you notice her eyes following it. Then, _then_ you recognize it. It’s the face you saw in your little brother when he burned ants with a magnifying glass, or when this kid in your ninth-grade biology class performed his first dissection – a rat, who ended being pregnant. You named her Bernadette. You never told him that.

It’s one of fascination, a curious kind of itch that burrows into the brains of those that may know they have power, but do not know the bounds of the superiority position they hold.

Natasha pushes a stray strand of hair from your face with the metal sleeve of a box cutter. “You’re so pretty when you cry,” she whispers to you, lips barely grazing your ear. A violent shiver shoots itself down your spine despite your face heating up.

She pulls a knife out of her left thigh holster, one with two sharp sides and a black leather handle. You watch her with shaky breath and a racing heart and lungs that struggle to keep up with the previous two cardiovascular functions.

Natasha twirls the knife in her fingers, just like you’ve seen her do when she’s concentrating on something other than the sharp object flying between her fingers. In a split second, she’s got the handle firmly against her palm with one of the flat sides pressed medially over the thin lace of your panties. Just like the wall, the cool metal provides both relief and torture before you feel her lift the expensive pair of underwear and cut through the soaked, white lace.

“Like unwrapping a present,” Natasha says absentmindedly. Her deft fingers and their callous pads run through your slick just as unconsciously as her fingers when they toy with her knife. It’s almost embarrassing how wet you are, how much you want her to touch you, to fuck you. “Gonna have so much fun with you, best little toy I’ve ever been given.”

The box cutter is dragged down your chest, and every few inches she pushes the sharp blade past its protective sheath a _little_ more. Each sharp _click_ into place as she pushes it further upwards makes you flinch, and each flinch makes Natasha laugh wickedly.

You’re visibly shaking when Natasha cuts the worn t-shirt from your body, the sweat on your skin mixed with the air causes your nipples to harden. She takes a moment to pinch at them, grope your breasts and trail an angry line between them. There’s no blood, _no_ Natasha’s too skilled for that, but there is a small pinch that makes you squeak.

“Oh no, did I hurt you?” She asks with an exaggerated pout.

You shake your head, mumbling out something that sounds like an _uh-uh_ , even through your gag.

Natasha leans forward again, the knife and boxcutter _threateningly_ close to that vital artery in your neck. _“Good,_ because when I _do_ hurt you, I want to hear you scream.”

Guess she doesn’t care about those neighbors anymore.

Before you can whimper or plead or _anything_ your legs are untied, you’re flipped over, and your ass is in the air. Quickly she’s slams her hand down on each cheek, one, twice, _three times_ , before your muscles are shaking and you’re pliant under her rough, experienced hands. It’s the moments like these Natasha cherishes most, the moments where you’re _so good_ for her. Some of the moments are when she catches you off guard, like this one, nevertheless she enjoys them just the same/

More quick, succinct smacks to your ass and thighs, more pleas for mercy, more ghosting of her fingertips over your dripping pussy, more pleas for her to touch you. It’s not long before you’re crying again, brain unable to decide between begging her to stop leaving large welts all over you or begging her to sink her deft fingers into you. It’s spank twenty-five (but who’s counting) when Natasha finally lets up, lets you sink into her as your eyes flutter shut in relief.

“Did you like that princess?” she coos before yanking you up by your hair. “Do you like it when I hit you?”

With your heavy, wanton breathing it’s hard to nod, but somehow you manage a small _mhmm_ as you look up at her with bloodshot eyes as you pant heavily.

“ _Good.”_

You’re dropped to the ground with a loud _thud_ , and through the ringing in your ears you hear the distinct sound of something unzipping and something else’s lid _popping_ open before being closed again. With the fog in your brain you’re unable to fit together the seemingly-obvious series of events, unable to understand what your captor is doing until you feel something hard, slick, _cold_ drag through your folds. You whine, though you’re not sure for what, and in an instant, you’re flipped over as Natasha mutters something about wanting to see your face when you cum.

She laughs when the toy is merely rubbed through your dripping slick, the miniscule movements making you begin to beg for further movement. It amuses her to watch you abandon whatever sense of self-respect you had left just to feel her silicon cock inside of you.

“You’re so cute,” she coos, pushing away strands of sweat-slick hair from your tear-stained face. “So cute under me, in this dirty old van with nothing on but some ruined little skirt…”

Natasha trails off as she beings to thrust into you, but only shallowly. No use in fulfilling such a fantasy if she doesn’t get to hear your strangled cries. Though, as a hot copper coil tightens in her own abdomen, her sinister smile truly shines as you sing – deep and loud – when she fucks the toy all the way into your dripping, abused pussy. With your arms still tied you can’t draw her closer, can’t grip onto her, but you figure that would only make her edge you harder; the price you’d pay for the gift of touching her.

Each leg, though, kicks with its own volition and keeps her close, a sin she does not command repentance for. Still, she moves them to your chest, allowing deeper angles into you and forcing deeper groans out of you. It’s not long, not long at all, before you’re begging to be pushed over the edge; It’s not far, not far at all, and you can barely grasp it with your fingertips that have since fallen asleep under you.

“ _Hm,_ ” Natasha ponders your request as she continues to fuck into your tight heat. “If you beg me for it, I _may_ let you come.”

A small noise that loosely translates to _how am I supposed to do that!?_ leaves you, and Natasha _laughs_. “Oh, right. I forgot about that. How about…”

Without warning she’s off of you, grabbing rope, and tying your legs into their bent positions with the back of your thigh pressing into your calf. You think that’s all she’ll do, but then she flips you over and ties your arms behind your back once again. Freedom is so fleeting around her.

With your arms stuck behind your back and legs tied into a bent position, you’re now completely reliant on Natasha to move anywhere else besides the floor. She lifts you up, gingerly placing you on the bed before sitting in front of you.

You don’t know what to do, still fighting the urge to break out in tears as you sniffle.

She pulls you closer to slowly. Like you’re a deer she’s captured, and it’s got one limb out of the trap. It’s not that she doesn’t have your life your hands, it’s just that you have a _little_ more leverage that she would like.

“I’ll make you a bargain, okay pup?” She runs her thumb over your bottom lip. Feeling it quiver under the callous skin nearly makes her devour you right there. “How about you ride me, and I’ll think about letting you go.”

You nod, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

“Good girl,” she tells you, and pulls you into her lap and onto the silicone cock. Immediately you realize you can’t do it, you can’t move. You can’t move without falling. You’d have to fall onto her chest and push against her or have her loom over you as your legs get numb. Natasha notices nearly as soon as you do, but of course, of _course_ she has a solution. Without hesitation, she wraps her left hand around your throat. “Just lean on it for balance, pup.”

You nod again and do as you’re told. It’s hard, takes all of your fried brain to not to crumble right there, to just cry and beg for forgiveness and hope she lets you go. But you don’t, don’t crumble as your breath starts coming out in short spurts and the color drains from your face. Even as the world goes black around the edges of your vision, you don’t stop.

Natasha’s the one to give you relief, using the pocket knife from earlier to cut the ties that bound your wrists together. For a moment you don’t know what to do – the newfound freedom surprising and your brain still starved of the oxygen vital to critical thinking. Understanding this, Natasha guides you with one hand on your hip and the other between your shoulders, each pushing on you at different times to guide your movements. It takes a few seconds for what she’s doing to register in your neurons, but once it does it feels like air has filled your lungs for the first time in years.

For the first time that night, your body fills with unabashed pleasure as you fuck yourself up and down Natasha’s cock. Deep moans fill the space you’re in _– a van, you remember her saying_ – as you grind, as Natasha sticks her thumb in your mouth before rubbing it over your neglected clit. Your orgasms come quickly, almost embarrassingly so. One right after the other, _three_ you’re able to count before Natasha’s flipping you over again.

Face down onto the cool floor with your ass presented to her, Natasha easily slips back into you and pulls on your skirt to fuck you onto her.  “C’mon baby,” she coos. “Lemme see that sweet little ass.”

You whimper as she slaps your ass again, skin still hot and sore from the last time she spanks you. You scream, but as the feeling of the thick strap on dragging in and out of you becomes more and more pleasurable, they soon turn to deep moans.

Natasha reaches one hand down to your clit and the other up into your hair. You come again, and again, before Natasha decides you’ve had enough.

The second she lets you go you crumble onto the floor as if you’re lifeless, boneless, soulless. Somewhere in the distance you can hear Natasha giggle, and somewhere closer you feel her pick you up. Closer still to you hear her low mumbling, thick Russian accent present as ever: “C’mon darling, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You come to near the sound of rushing water and the thick scent of lavender in the air.

“You okay baby?” Natasha coos, lowering you into the large bathtub. You release a happy noise when your sore, bruised body meets the water that’s _just_ on this side of hot. It’s soothing to your aching muscles, to your back – which still feels cool from the metal lining of the vehicle you were just fucked in. “Good.”

The last thing you remember before slipping into sweet, sweet unconsciousness is the sound of Natasha whispering praises into your ear as her fingers traced the bruises over your hips.

**Author's Note:**

> by the way! if you liked this fic come yell with me about it on tumblr @ peachyteabuck. I even have a whole tag dedicated to this lol


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